 41 I got a warm welcome on Monkey Hill. John Trumbull came to dine with us at the chalet the evening of my arrival. MacGlingon had become editor-in-chief of a new daily newspaper. Since the war began Mr. Force had found ample and remunerative occupation writing the obituaries of distinguished persons. He sat between Trumbull and MacGlingon at table and told again of the time he had introduced the late Daniel Webster to the people of his native town. During a passage of the immortal senator he tipped his beer into the lap of MacGlingon. He ceased talking and sought pardon. "'It is nothing, Force. Nothing,' said the Scotchman, with great dignity, as he wiped his coat-and-trousers. "'You will pardon me if I say that I had rather be drenched in beer than soaked in recollections.' "'That's all right,' said Mr. Opper, handing him a new napkin. "'Yes, in the midst of such affliction I should call it excellent fun,' MacGlingon added. "'If you ever die, Force, I will preach the sermon without charge.' "'On what text?' the obituary editor inquired. "'There remaineth therefore a rest for the people of God,' quote MacGlingon solemnly. "'Hebrews, fourth chapter, ninth verse. "'If I continue to live with you, I shall need it,' said Force. "'And if I endure to the end,' said MacGlingon, "'I shall have excellent Christian discipline. I shall feel like opening my mouth and making a loud noise.' MacGlingon changed his garments, and then came into my room and sat with us a while after dinner. "'One needs ear-lappers and a rubber coat at that table,' said he. "'And a chest protector,' I suggested, remembering the finger of Force. "'I shall be leaving here soon, Brower,' said MacGlingon, as he lit a cigar. "'Where shall you go?' I asked. "'To my own house.' "'Going to hire a housekeeper?' "'Going to marry one,' said he. "'That's funny,' I said. "'We're all to be married, every man of us.' "'By Jove!' said MacGlingon. "'This is a time for congratulation. "'God save us and grant for us all the best woman in the world.' "'End of Chapter 41, Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Chapter 42 of Eben Holden.' This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Eben Holden, a tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor.' "'Chapter 42. For every man he knew and loved, Mr. Greeley had a kindness that filled him to the fingertips. When I returned he smoked me on the breast, an unfailing mark of his favour, and doubled my salary. "'If he ever smites you on the breast,' MacGlingon had once said to me, "'Turn the other side, for man, your fortune is made.' And there was some truth in the warning. He was writing when I came in, a woman sat beside him talking. An immense ham lay on the marble top of the steam radiator. A basket of eggs sat on the floor near Mr. Greeley's desk. All sorts of merchandise were sent to the Tribune those days, for notice, and sold at auction to members of the staff, by Mr. Dana. "'Yes, yes, madame, go on, I hear you,' said the great editor, as his pen flew across the white page. She asked him then for a loan of money. He continued writing, but presently his left hand dove into his trouser's pocket, coming up full of bills. "'Take what you want,' said he, holding it toward her. "'And please go, for I am very busy.' Whereupon she helped herself liberally and went away. Seeing me, Mr. Greeley came and shook my hand warmly, and praised me for a good soldier. "'Going downtown,' he said in a moment, drawing on his big white overcoat. "'Walk along with me, won't you?' We crossed the park, he leading me with long strides. As we walked he told how he had been suffering from brain fever. Passing St. Paul's churchyard he brushed the iron pickets with his hand, as if to try the feel of them. Many turned to stare at him curiously. He asked me soon if I would care to do a certain thing for the Tribune, stopping to look in at a shop window, as I answered him. I waited while he did his errand at a Broadway shop, then we came back to the office.' The publisher was in Mr. Greeley's room. "'Where's my ham, Dave?' said the editor, as he looked at the slab of marble where the ham had lain. "'Don't know for sure,' said the publisher. It's probably up at the house of the editor by this time. "'What did you go and give it to him for?' drawled Mr. Greeley in a tone of irreparable injury. I wanted that ham for myself.' "'I didn't give it to him,' said the publisher. He came and helped himself. Said he supposed it was sent in for notice. "'They infernal thief!' Mr. Greeley piped with a violent gesture. "'I'll swear if I didn't keep my shirt button tight they'd have that, too!' The ham was a serious obstacle in the way of my business, and it went over until evening. But that, and like incidents, made me to know the man as I have never seen him pictured—a boy grown old and gray, pushing the power of manhood with the ardors of youth. I resumed work on the Tribune that week. My first assignment was a mass meeting in a big temporary structure, then called a wigwam, over in Brooklyn. My political life began that day and all by an odd chance. The wigwam was crowded to the doors. The audience had been waiting half an hour for the speaker. The chairman had been doing his best to kill time, but had run out of ammunition. He had sat down to wait, and awkward silence had begun. The crowd was stamping and whistling and clapping with impatience. As I walked down the center aisle to the reporters' table, they seemed to mistake me for the speaker. Instantly a great uproar began. It grew louder every step I took. I began to wonder and then to fear the truth. As I neared the stage the chairman came forward beckoning to me. I went to the flight of steps leading up to that higher level of distinguished citizens and halted, not knowing just what to do. He came and leaned over and whispered down at me. I remember he was red in the face and damp with perspiration. What is your name? he inquired. Brower, said I in a whisper. A look of relief came into his face, and I am sure a look of anxiety came into mind. He had taken the center of the stage before I could stop him. Ladies and gentlemen, said he, I am glad to inform you that General Brower has at last arrived. I remembered then there was a General Brower in the army who was also a power in politics. In the storm of applause that followed this announcement, I beckoned him to the edge of the platform again. I was nearer a condition of mental panic than I have ever known since that day. I am not General Brower, I whispered. What? said he in amazement. I am not General Brower, I said. Great heavens! he whispered, covering his mouth with his hand and looking very thoughtful. You'll have to make a speech anyway, there's no escape. I could see no way out of it, and after a moment's hesitation ascended the platform, took off my overcoat, and made a speech. Fortunately the issue was one with which I had been long familiar. I told them how I had been trapped. The story put the audience in good humour, and they helped me along with very generous applause. And so began my career in politics, which has brought me more honour than I deserved, although I know it has not been wholly without value to my country. It enabled me to repay in part the kindness of my former chief, at a time when he was sadly in need of friends. I remember meeting him in Washington a day of that exciting campaign of Seventy-two. I was then in Congress. I thank you for what you have done, Brower, said he, but I tell you I am licked. I shall not carry a single state. I am going to be slaughtered. He had read his fate, and better than he knew. In politics he was a great prophet. He was a great prophet. End of Chapter 42 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 43 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden, a tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor Chapter 43 The North Country lay buried in the snow that Christmas time. Here and there the steam plow had thrown its furrows, on either side of the railroad, high above the window-line. The fences were muffled in long ridges of snow, their stakes showing like pins in a cushion of white velvet. Some of the small trees on the edge of the big timber stood overdifted to their bows. I have never seen such a glory of the morning as when the sun came up that day we were nearing home. And lit the splendor of the hills there in the land I love. The frosty nap of the snow glowed far and near with pulsing glints of pale sapphire. We came into Hillsborough at noon, the day before Christmas. Father and Uncle Eb met us at the depot, and Mother stood waving her handkerchief at the door as we drove up. And when we were done with our greetings and were standing, damp-eyed, to warm ourselves at the fire, Uncle Eb brought his palms together with a loud whack and said, Look here, Elizabeth Brower! I want to have you tell me if you ever see a likelier pair of coals. She laughed as she looked at us. In a moment she ran her hand down the side of Hope's gown. Then she lifted a fold of the cloth and felt of it thoughtfully. How much was that a yard? she asked, a dreamy look in her eyes. Why, why? she continued as Hope told her the sum. Terrible steep, but it does fit splendid. Out of where well, too. Wish you'd put that on if you go to church next Sunday. Oh, Mother! said Hope, laughing. I'll wear my blue silk. Come, boys and girls, said Elizabeth suddenly. Dinner's already in the other room. Beats the world, said Uncle Eb as we sat down at the table. You do look grand to me. Remarkable grand, both of you. Take a premium at any fare, you would, certain. Has he won your affections? said David, laughing as he looked over at Hope. He has, said she, solemnly. Affections are a singular kind of property, said Uncle Eb. Ain't good for nothing till you've given them away. Then, like as not, they get very valuable. Good deal that way with money, too, said Elizabeth Brower. I recollect when Hope was a little bit of a girl, said Uncle Eb. She used to say it when she got married. She was going to have her husband rub my back for me when it was lame. I haven't forgotten it, said Hope. And if you'll all come, you'll make us happier. Good many mouths to feed, Uncle Eb remarked. I could take in sewing and help some, said Elizabeth Brower, as she sipped her tea. There was a little quiver in David's underlip as he looked over at her. You ain't able to do hard work any more, mother, said he. She won't never have to, neither, said Uncle Eb. Don't never pay to go looking for trouble. It's too easy to find. There ain't no such thing as trouble in this world, lest you look for it. Happiness won't have nothing to do with a man that likes trouble. Minute a man stops looking for trouble, happiness will look for him. Things come pretty nice you like them here in this world, hot or cold or only middlin'. You can neither laugh or cry, or fight or fish, or go to meetin'. If you don't like everyone, you can find fault. I'm on the lookout for happiness, suits me best some way, and don't hurt my feelings a bit. Every day's a kind of a circus day with you, Holden, said David Brower. Always havin' a good time. You can have more fun with yourself than any man I ever see. If I have as much hereafter as I've had here, I ain't gonna find no fault, said Uncle Eb. It's a real splendid world. God's fixed it up so everybody can have a good time if they'll only have it. Once I heard of a poor man that had a bushel of corn give to him. He looked up kind of sad and asked if they wouldn't please shell it. Then they took it away. God's given us happiness in the ear, but he ain't gonna shell it for us. You and Elizabeth ought to be very happy. Look at them two children. There came a wrap at the door, then. David put on his cap and went out with Uncle Eb. It's somebody for more money, Elizabeth whispered, her eyes filling. I know it is, or he would have asked him in. We're going to lose our home. Her lips quivered. She covered her eyes a moment. David ain't well, she continued. Worries night and day over money matters. Don't say much, but I can see it's always on his mind. Woke up in the middle of the night a while ago. Found him sitting by the stove. Mother, he said, we can't never go back to Farman. I've plowed furrows enough to go round the world. Couldn't never go through it again. Well, said I, if you think best, we could start over, see how we get along. I'm willing to try it. No, we're too old, he says. That's out of the question. I've been thinking, what'll we do there with Bill and Hope, if we go to live with them? Don't suppose they'll have any hosses to take care of, or any wood to chop. What we'll have to do is more and I can make out. We can't do nothing. We've never learned how. We've thought that all over, I said. We may have a place in the country with a big garden. Well, said she, I'm very well, if I am over sixty. I can cook and wash and mend and iron just as well as I ever could. Uncle Eb came to the door then. Bill, he said, I want you and Hope to come out here and look at this young coltamine. He's playful as a kitten. We put on our wraps and went to the stable. Uncle Eb was there alone. If you brought any Christmas presents, he whispered, slip him into my hands. I'm going to run the circus tomorrow, and if we don't have fun aplenty, I'll miss my guess. I'll lay them out in my room, said Hope. Be sure and put the names on them, Uncle Eb whispered as Hope went away. What have you done with the boilers? I inquired. Soldom, said he, laughing. Barker never kept his promise. Heard they'd gone over to the burg and was trying to sell more territory. I says to Dave, you let me manage them, and I'll put them out of business here in this part of the country. So I read out an advertisement for the paper. Read about this way. First sale. 1200 patented suction wash boilers. Anyone who can't stand prosperity and is learning to swear will find him a great help. If he don't, he's a bigger fool than I am. Nothing in him but tin. That's worth something. Warranted to hold water. Well, you know how that editor talks. Twernt a day before the head man of the boiler business came and bought him. And the advertisement was never put in. Guess he wasn't hankering to have his business spilt. Uncle Eb was not at the supper table that evening. Where's Holden? said Elizabeth Brower. Don't know, said David, going after Santa Claus he told me. Never see the beat of that man, was the remark of Elizabeth, as she poured the tea. Just like a boy, every Christmas time. Been so excited for a week, couldn't hardly contain himself. Catched him out in the barn the other day, laughing like a fool, said David. Thought he was crazy. We sat by the fire after the supper dishes were put away, talking of all the Christmas days we could remember. Hope and I thought our last and far away best of all, and no wonder, for we had got then the first promise of the great gift that now made us happy. Elizabeth, sitting in her easy chair, told us of Christmas in the olden time, when her father had gone to the war with the British. David sat near me, his face in the fire-light. The broad brow wrinkled into furrows and framed in locks of iron gray. He was looking thoughtfully at the fire. Uncle Ebb came soon, stamping and shaking the snow out of his great fur coat. Cold night! he said, warming his hands. Then he carried his coat and cap away, returning shortly with the little box in his hand. Just thought I'd buy this for fun, said he, holding it down to the fire-light. Dumbed if I ever saw the like of it. Whoa! he shouted as the cover flew open, releasing a jumping jack. Quicker than a grass-hopper! You ever see such a sassy little critter? Then he handed it to Elizabeth. Wishing Merry Christmas, Dave Brower, said he. Ain't as merry as I might be, said David. Know what's the matter with you? said Uncle Ebb. Searching after trouble, that's what you're doing. Finding lots of it right there in the fire. Trouble is going to get mighty scarce around here this very self-same night. Ain't going to be nobody looking for it, that's why. For years you've been taking care of somebody, and I'll take care of you long as you live, certain sure. Folks, they said you was fools when you took them in. Man, said I was a fool once. Always had a pretty fair idea of myself since then. When some folks call you a fool, it's a rather good sign you ain't. You've waited a long time for your pay. Ain't much longer to wait now. There was a little quaver in his voice. We all looked at him in silence. Uncle Ebb drew out his wallet with trembling hands, his fine old face lit with a deep emotion. David looked up at him as he wondered what joke was coming until he saw his excitement. Here's twenty thousand dollars, said Uncle Ebb. A real genuine bank check. Just as good as gold. Here it is, a Christmas present for you and Elizabeth. And may God bless you both. David looked up incredulously. Then he took the bit of paper. A big tear rolled down his cheek. Why, Holden, what does this mean? he asked. At the Lord pays his debts, said Uncle Ebb. Read it. Hope had lighted the lamp. David rose and put on his spectacles. One eyebrow had lifted above the level of the other. He held the check to the lamp light. Elizabeth stood at his elbow. Why, Mother! said he. Is this from our boy? From Nehemiah? Why, Nehemiah is dead! he added, looking over his spectacles at Uncle Ebb. Nehemiah is not dead! said the latter. Nehemiah not dead! he repeated, looking down at the draft. They turned it in the light, reading over and over again the happy tidings pinned to one corner of it. Then they looked into each other's eyes. Elizabeth put her arms about David's neck and later head upon his shoulder, and not one of us dare trust himself to speak for a little. Uncle Ebb broke the silence. Got another present, he said. It's a good deal better in gold or silver. A tall bearded man came in. Mr. Trumbull, Hope exclaimed, rising. David and Elizabeth Brower, said Uncle Ebb, the dead has come to life. I give you back your son, Nehemiah. Then he swung his cap high above his head, shouting in a loud voice, Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! The scene that followed I shall not try to picture. It was so full of happiness that every day of our lives since then has been blessed with it, and with a peace that has lightened every sorrow. Of it I can truly say that it passeth all understanding. Look here, folks! said Uncle Ebb, after a while, as he got his flute. My feelings have been touched hard. If I don't have some jollification, I'll bust. Bill Brower, limber up your leather a little bit. End of Chapter Four. Your leather a little bit. End of Chapter Forty-three. Recording by Roger Moline. Chapter Forty-four of Ebb and Holden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline. Ebb and Holden. A Tale of the North Country. By Irving Batchelor. Chapter Forty-four. Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat a long time between his father and mother, holding a hand of each, and talking in a low tone, while Hope and I were in the kitchen with Uncle Ebb. Now that father and son were side by side, we saw how like they were, and wondered we had never guessed the truth. Do you remember, said Nehemiah, when we returned, do you remember when you were a little boy, coming one night to the old log-house on Bowman's Hill with Uncle Ebb? I remember it very well, I answered. That was the first time I ever saw you, he said. Why, you are not the night-man. I was the night-man, he answered. I stared at him with something of the old, familiar thrill that had always come at the mention of him years ago. He's grown a little since then, said Uncle Ebb. I thought so the night I carried him off the field at Bull Run, said Nehemiah. Was that you? I asked eagerly. It was, he answered. I came over from Washington that afternoon. Your Colonel told me you had been wounded. Wondered who you were, but I could not get you to answer. I have to thank you for my life. Hope put her arms about his neck and kissed him. Tell us, said she, how you came to be the night-man. He folded his arms and looked down and began his story. Years ago I had a great misfortune. I was a mere boy at the time. By accident I killed another boy in play. It was an old gun we were playing with, and nobody knew it was loaded. I had often quarreled with the other boy. That is why they thought I had done it on purpose. There was a dance that night. I had got up in the evening, crawled out of the window, and stolen away. We were in record stable. I remember how the people ran out with lanterns. They would have hung me, some of them, or given me the Blue Beach, if a boyfriend had not hurried me away. It was a terrible hour. I was stunned. I could say nothing. They drove me to the Berg, the boy's father chasing us. I got over into Canada, walked to Montreal, and there went to sea. It was foolish, I know, but I was only a boy of fifteen. I took another name. I began a new life. Nehemiah Brower was like one dead. In Frisco I saw Ben Gilman. He had been a schoolmate in far away. He put his hand on my shoulder and called me the old name. It was hard to deny it, the hardest thing I ever did. I was homesick. I wanted to ask him about my mother and father and my sister, who was a baby when I left. I would have given my life to talk with him, but I shook my head. No, I said, my name is not Brower, you are mistaken. Then I walked away and Nehemiah Brower stayed in his grave. Well, two years later we were cruising from Sydney to Van Demon's land. One night there came a big storm. A shipmate was washed away in the dark. We never saw him again. They found a letter in his box that said his real name was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower of far away New York, USA. I put it there, of course, and the captain wrote a letter to my father about the death of his son. My old self was near done for, and the man Trumbull had a new lease of life. You see, in my madness, I had convicted and executed myself. He paused a moment. His mother put her hand upon his shoulder with the word of gentle sympathy. Then he went on. Well, six years after I had gone away, one evening in mid-summer, we came into the harbour of Quebec. I had been long in the southern seas. When I went ashore on a day's leave, and wandered off in the southern sea, wandered off in the fields, and got the smell of the north, I went out of my head. Went crazy for a look at the hills afar away into my own people. Nothing could stop me then. I drew my pay, packed my things in a bag, and off I went. Left the burg a foot the day after, got to far away in the evening. It was beautiful, the scent of the new hay that stood in cocks and rows on the hill, the noise of the crickets, the smell of the grain, the old house, just as I remembered them, just as I had dreamed of them a thousand times. And when I went by the gate, Boney, my old dog, came out and barked at me. And I spoke to him, and he knew me, and came and licked my hands, rubbing upon my leg. I sat down with him there by the stone wall, and, the kiss of that old dog, the first token of love I had known for years, called back the dead and all that had been his. I put my arms about his neck and was near crying out with joy. Then I stole up to the house and looked in at a window. There sat Father at a table, reading his paper, and a little girl was on her knees by Mother, saying her prayers. He stopped a moment, covering his eyes with his handkerchief. That was hope, I whispered. That was hope, he went on. All the King's oxen could not have dragged me out of far away then. Late at night I went off into the woods. The old dog followed to stay with me until he died. If it had not been for him, I should have been hopeless. I had with me enough to eat for a time. We found a cave in a big ledge over a back of bull pond. Its mouth was covered with briars. It had a big room and a stream of cold water trickling through a crevice. I made it my home, and a fine place it was, cool in summer and warm in winter. I caught a cub-panther that fall and a baby coon. They grew up with me there, and were the only friends I had after Boney except Uncle Ebb. Uncle Ebb, I exclaimed. You know how I met him, he continued. Well, he won my confidence. I told him my history. I came into the clearing almost every night. Met him often. He tried to persuade me to come back to my people, but I could not do it. I was insane. I feared something. I did not know what. Sometimes I doubted even my own identity. Many a summer night I sat talking for hours with Uncle Ebb at the foot of Lone Pine. Oh, he was like a father to me. God knows what I should have done without him. Well, I stuck to my life, or rather to my death, out there in the woods, getting fish out of the brooks and game out of the forest, and milk out of the cows in the pasture. Sometimes I went through the woods to the store at Tifton for flour and pork. One night Uncle Ebb told me, if I would go out among men to try my hand at some sort of business, he would start me with a thousand dollars. Well, I did it. I had also a hundred dollars of my own. I came through the woods afoot, bought fashionable clothing at Utica, and came to the big city. You know the rest. Among men my fear has left me, so I wonder at it. I am a debtor to love, the love of Uncle Ebb and that of a noble woman I shall soon marry. It has made me whole and brought me back to my own people. And everybody knew he was innocent the day after he left, said David. Three cheers for Uncle Ebb, I demanded, and we gave them. I declare, said he, in all my born days, never see such fun. It's tree-menget, I tell you. Then that takes care of others will be took care of, lest they do it a purpose. And when the rest of us had gone to bed, Uncle Ebb sat a while by the fire with David. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. He came over to my bed on tiptoe to see if I were awake, holding the candle above my head. I was worn out and did not open my eyes. He sat down, snickering. Tell you one thing, Dave Brower. He whispered to himself as he drew off his boots. When some folks call you a fool, it's a pretty good sign you ain't. End of Chapter 44 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 45 Of Ebb and Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Ebb and Holden A Tale of the North Country By Irving Batchelor Chapter 45 Since that day I have seen much coming and going. We are now the old folks, Margaret and Nehemiah and Hope and I. Those others, with their rugged strength, their simple ways, their undying youth, are of the past. The young folks, they are a new kind of people. It gives us comfort to think they will never have to sing in choirs or pound the rock for board-money, but I know it is the worst luck for them. They are a fine lot of young men and women, comely and well-mannered, but they will not be the pathfinders of the future. What with balls and dinners and clubs and theatres, they find too great a solace in the rear rank. Nearly twenty years after that memorable Christmas, coming from Buffalo to New York one summer morning, my thoughts went astray in the North Country. The familiar faces, the old scenes, came trooping by, and that very day I saw the sun set in Hillsborough, as I had often those late years. Mother was living in the old home alone, with a daughter of Grandma Bissnett. It was her wish to live and die under that roof. She cooked me a fine supper, with her own hands, and a great meal. With her own hands, and a great anxiety to please me. Come, Willie, said she, as if I were a small boy again. You fill the wood-box, and I'll get supper ready. Lucindy, you clear out, she said to the hired girl, good-naturedly. You don't know how to cook for him. I filled the wood-box, and brought a pail of water, and while she was frying the ham and eggs, read to her part of a speech I had made in Congress. Before thousands I had never felt more elation. At last I was sure of winning her applause. The little bent figure stood thoughtfully, turning the ham and eggs. She put the spider aside to stand near me, her hands upon her hips. There was a mighty pride in her face when I had finished. I rose, and she went and looked out of the window. Grand! she murmured, wiping her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief. Glad you like it, I said, with great satisfaction. Oh! the speech! she answered, her elbow resting on the window sash, her hands supporting her head. I liked it very well, but I was thinking of the sunset. How beautiful it is! I was weary after my day of travel, and went early to bed there in my old room. I left her finishing a pair of socks she had been knitting for me. Lying in bed I could hear the creak of her chair, and the low-sung familiar words. On the other side of Jordan, in the sweet fields of Eden, where the tree of life is blooming, there is rest for you. Late at night she came into my room with a candle. I heard her come softly to the bed where she stood a moment leaning over me. Then she drew the quilt about my shoulder with a gentle hand. Poor little orphan, said she in a whisper that trembled. She was thinking of my childhood, of her own happier days. Then she went away, and I heard in the silence a ripple of measureless waters. Next morning I took flowers and strewed them on the graves of David and Uncle Ebb. There, Hope and I go often to sit for half a summer day above those perished forms, and think of the old time and of those last words of my venerable friend, now graven on his tombstone. I ain't afraid, shamed in nothing I ever done. Always kept my tugs tight, never swore lest was necessary, never catched a fish bigger than it was, or lied in a husk-trade, or shed a tear I didn't have to. Never cheated anybody but Ebb and Holden. Going off somewheres, build another way, another to know if it was east or west or north or south, or road or trail. But I ain't afraid. End of Chapter 45. Recording by Roger Maline. End of Ebb and Holden. A Tale of the North Country. By Irving Batchelor.